Why Digging in the Dirt Feels Like Coming Home

There’s something primal about dirt.
The way it smells just after a rain. The way it clings to our hands, no matter how many times we wash. It’s not just soil—it’s story. And for many of us, it's the first place we ever learned to be curious.

At my farmers market stand, where I sell worm castings and talk compost with anyone who’ll listen, people often drift toward the bins with a soft look in their eyes.
“Oh, my grandma had a worm farm,” they say.
Or: “This reminds me of digging in the garden with my dad.”
And just like that, we’re not talking about worms anymore.
We’re talking about legacy. About the moments when we felt most grounded—literally and emotionally.

Worms Are More Than Workers

There’s a quiet beauty to worms. They don’t demand recognition. They just transform.
Leftovers, scraps, and yesterday’s mistakes—all broken down into something new.
Worms are nature’s way of reminding us that nothing is ever really wasted.
In their silent industry, we find a rhythm. A kind of peace.

The Nostalgia of Soil

Why does a handful of dirt make us feel something?
Because it’s a place of beginnings.
The place where we planted marigolds with our grandma, buried lost teeth in a backyard ritual, or helped our own children search for pill bugs under stones.
The soil remembers—when we forget, it holds it for us.

The Magic of Remembering

Maybe that’s why people feel a swell in their chest when they see a worm farm.
It’s not the compost. It’s the connection.
To childhood.
To loved ones.
To a slower, simpler time when our hands were always a little muddy, and that was just fine.

When I dig in the dirt now, I don’t just do it for the plants.
I do it for the remembering.
And I think, deep down, most of us are trying to find our way back to the places where life felt full of wonder—and worms.